It's the Thought That Counts
by The Irish Lass
Summary: When Sam was in his sophomore year, a hoodie is left on his doorstep. It smelled like whiskey and smoke, and Dean's favorite aftershave, as if though someone had been carrying it around for a while before finally deciding to give it to him.


Sam had a favorite jacket. As Dad's leather jacket, albeit two sizes too big, was to Dean, so the brown canvas hoodie was to Sam.

It jacket had mysteriously shown up on Sam's doorstep in Sophmore year, while he was finishing his last growth spurt. Two inches too long in the sleeves and far too wide in the shoulders, it had reeked of motherly "you'll grow into it". It had also smelled like smoke and whiskey, and Dean's favorite aftershave, as if though someone had been carrying it around for a while before deciding to give it away.

Jess had smiled when she saw him in it, laughingly asking him if he intended to put on enough muscle to fill out the shoulders. Then she had kissed him, and told him she liked the color brown.

A double-layered, fleece lined jacket wasn't much use in California at first, but all seasons change, and Sam began to leave it hanging by the door, even in the middle of summer.

He was wearing it when his future went up in flames.

It was one of only a few things that were saved. The entire floor that he had lived in was engulfed in fire, almost all that he and Jess owned disappearing to its ravenous appetite. The textbooks, Jess's knick-knacks, his clothes and weapons, all gone within an hour.

After that, Sam hadn't felt like buying a new wardrobe, had worn the same clothing for a week until Dean coaxed him into a different shirt.

"Hey, dude." Dean's voice, gruff and rough and gentle, had pulled him from his memories ("No! Jess!") and into the present. "Time for some change, don't you think?" And Sam's big brother held up a plastic Walmart bag.

Sam didn't realize what was going on until Dean started to tug at the jacket, tried to coax him out of the coat that Sam _knew_ he gave him, even though they weren't talking. The coat Jess had loved, sometimes tugging it off the peg to wrap herself in, even though it was huge and boxy on her.

"No." He shook his head. "Mine." His voice was croaky with disuse and grief.

"I know, Sammy." He was always Sammy now. Not Sam Winchester, not Samuel, not Sam. He was Sammy. He hadn't been called Sammy since his first roommate tried it out and decided he didn't like it. He didn't know if he liked it or not.

"But c'mon, dude. It needs washed." Dean would never mention it, but they both knew that it reeked of smoke and destruction, of lost dreams and hope. Sam sobbed, and let Dean take it.

"Okay. Okay then." A large, rough hand smoothed Sam's filthy hair. "How about a shower, Tiger? You'll feel better."

Nothing could make Sam feel better. Dean had to know that. But it would make Dean feel better if he at least tried. He owed that to him. So Sam got up, got into the shower, and cried while Dean puttered around in the motel room, setting out new clothes and bundling Sam's dirty laundry into a duffle bag.

The jacket was given back to him that evening, smelling of detergent. The kind Jess had used because it was the cheapest and she wanted to pay back her loans as soon as possible. He burrowed his face into the brown canvas and fell asleep without eating any of the takeout Dean had brought back with him.

Over time, the ache faded. The terrible hole in his chest began to heal, slowly allowing him to start enjoying things again. The jacket remained close at hand. Dean never called it a security blanket, but it clearly was.

The years passed. It was confiscated by legal authorities, a crazy bunch of rednecks, and almost swept away by the wind once. As Sam got older, he stopped wearing it, even though it still fit. The elbows were worn, and there was a bullet hole in one of the sleeves, and the string from the hood had been used as a tourniquet.

When the brothers found the bunker, Sam hung it back up by his door, where it had always belonged. Dean liked to borrow it from time to time, claiming that all his own were in the wash or dirty. But Sam never put it back on. It remained one of his most prized possessions, venerated and adored, preserved as a reminder of love in the worst times. Through estrangement, and grief, and rage, it had remained with him. He wasn't about to endanger it by going on a hunt while wearing it.

Dean never asked. He frowned, tilted his head, raised his eyebrows, but never outright demanded to know why Sam left a perfectly serviceable jacket hanging in his room. He found out soon enough anyway, when he barged into Sam's room to borrow his razor, and found his giant little brother curled up in bed around the old hoodie.

Who said Winchesters didn't have teddy bears?


End file.
